


Inaudible

by GreyMichaela



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Ghosts, M/M, awkward Sepe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-10
Updated: 2020-01-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:13:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22198399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreyMichaela/pseuds/GreyMichaela
Summary: Sepe can’t talk to the dead.He’d been seven years old the first time he’d tried, seven years old and sleepily stumbling back to bed from the bathroom at three a.m.In later years, he’ll berate himself for not realizing sooner that the old woman weeping on the stairs doesn’t belong. He blames it on sleep fog and childhood naïveté and his mother insisting on good manners for dropping his hands from rubbing his eyes and asking, “Why are you sad?”He should have said, “Who are you?” Or maybe “Why are you in my house?” Or better yet, he should have pretended he hadn’t seen her and gone back to bed.He does none of those things. And she lifts her head and looks at him with eyes like bottomless pits, like sticky tar, like the black that gathers under the trees at night past his back yard.His dog goes into those trees sometimes but Sepe never follows.The old woman opens her mouth, and—
Relationships: Sebastian Aho/Teuvo Teravainen
Comments: 16
Kudos: 97





	Inaudible

**Author's Note:**

> Real people, work of fiction, no disrespect intended.
> 
> I don't really know where this came from, I just liked the idea of how to explain Sepe's awkwardness. It was a fun writing exercise for me. Enjoy!

Sepe can’t talk to the dead. 

He’d been seven years old the first time he’d tried, seven years old and sleepily stumbling back to bed from the bathroom at three a.m. 

In later years, he’ll berate himself for not realizing sooner that the old woman weeping on the stairs doesn’t belong. He blames it on sleep fog and childhood naïveté and his mother insisting on good manners for dropping his hands from rubbing his eyes and asking, “Why are you sad?”

He should have said, “Who are you?” Or maybe “Why are you in my house?” Or better yet, he should have pretended he hadn’t seen her and gone back to bed. 

He does none of those things. And she lifts her head and looks at him with eyes like bottomless pits, like sticky tar, like the black that gathers under the trees at night past his back yard. 

His dog goes into those trees sometimes but Sepe never follows. 

The old woman opens her mouth, and—

_ Aneurysm,  _ serious men in white coats tell his parents later.  _ Uncommon in children but not unheard of.  _ They go on to say more Sepe doesn’t understand, big words that make him feel small and helpless as the monitor beeps steadily beside him and the old woman watches him from the end of the bed. 

He learns, after that. Learns not to speak to the people he sees who don’t belong, with eyes as empty and black as the absence of emotion, learns to keep his head down and his eyes on the ground, trudging to school humming tunelessly under his breath. 

He slips, in comprehensive, at eleven years old. There’s a boy his age in the library, and Sepe likes reading almost as well as he likes hockey. The boy is bent over a book, and Sepe says, “What are you reading?” 

The boy looks up. His eyes are a yawning pit of emptiness in his thin face, and Sepe stumbles back a step, realizing his mistake a second too late. The boy says something, and—

He wakes up in the hospital again, the doctors sounding even more concerned as they speak to his parents. Sepe very carefully doesn’t look at the old woman and the boy by the side of his bed. Instead he curls up under the blanket as much as the trailing IV will let him, clutching his knees and fighting the tears that burn the corners of his eyes.

The next time he slips is in high school, when he sees a pretty girl with skin the color of hickory and black hair in neat braids. Her head is down as she writes in a notebook with quick, sloppy handwriting, and Sepe asks her for directions thoughtlessly, hurriedly, late for class and desperate not to make a bad impression on his new teacher. 

She lifts her head, eyes an endless scream of nothing, and—

He wakes up on the floor with a nosebleed just before the bell rings and class ends. Scrambling to his feet, he bolts for the bathroom, dimly grateful he hasn’t woken up in the hospital again. 

The girl with the hickory skin watches him silently in the mirror as he washes his face, shoulder to shoulder with the old woman and the little boy.

He develops a reputation after that. He has a peculiar habit of meeting a person’s eyes before speaking to them. People call him reserved, watchful, even shy. Sepe doesn’t bother arguing the labels—it wouldn’t do any good. He devotes himself to hockey and makes sure he recognizes the person speaking to him or sees their face before addressing them.

When he makes it to the NHL, when he’s told he’ll be putting on the red and white for the Hurricanes, he wonders if the ghosts will follow him to America.

They do. Sepe doesn’t look at them. They don’t speak to him. It’s an uneasy existence, tinged with fear, but it’s all he knows by now. He can cope. He can play hockey. At least they don’t follow him onto the ice—maybe that’s why he’s so electric on it. And he doesn’t see any  _ more _ ghosts. That’s the most important part, he tells himself. Maybe they stopped finding him after puberty.

The last thing he’s expecting is Teuvo. More accurately, the last thing he’s expecting is the ghost behind Teuvo’s left shoulder. She’s petite, blonde, and looks to be in her late teens. Sepe makes eye contact with her, freezes, then spins, pretending he’s forgotten something in the next room. He  _ runs,  _ not even caring what kind of first impression he just made.

Ducking into the hall, he presses the heels of his hands into his eyes.  _ Breathe, _ he orders himself, but still it’s hard to fill his lungs, the back of his throat burning acrid with bile. He’s never seen another ghost so clearly attached to a living person before, but that ghost belonged with Teuvo as surely as Crosby and Malkin were meant to play together.

“Sepe?” It’s Eddie, his striking eyes filled with worry.

Sepe straightens his shoulders and finds a smile somewhere. “Hey.”

“You okay? You ran out kinda fast.”

“Fine. Just needed some air.” Sepe makes an effort and manages to pat Eddie’s shoulder. It doesn’t seem to reassure him much, but Sepe can’t muster the energy for more. He has to go back inside, greet Teuvo properly, apologize for his behavior, and somehow ignore the girl with holes in her face where her eyes should be.

Nausea swims in his stomach and he swallows hard. “I was rude, wasn’t I?”

Eddie is too honest to lie, but too sweet to tell the truth. He grimaces, and Sepe sighs.

“Okay, yeah. Guess I should apologize.”

Back inside the locker room, Teuvo is talking to Justin. He glances at Sepe and his mouth tightens. He looks away again, focusing on his conversation, and the girl behind him looks straight at Sepe, who pretends not to see her. He makes his way across the room, waiting until Justin shakes Teuvo’s hand and turns away.

Left with no choice, Teuvo swivels to face Sepe. He arches one brow and says nothing.

“Sorry,” Sepe offers quietly, under the chatter of the room.

Teuvo inspects him. His eyes are deep, melting brown, a startling contrast to his blond hair, and he wears a bracelet of wooden beads around his left wrist. When he twists his mouth, dimples appear. His expression is not amused, though, and Sepe swallows around the rock in his throat.

“It’s fine” is all Teuvo says before turning to greet another teammate—Skinny, who’s beaming like he just won the lottery as he shakes Teuvo’s hand. Sepe takes the opportunity to slink away, still avoiding looking over Teuvo’s left shoulder.

_ It really is fine, _ he tells himself over the next year. It  _ is. _ Off the ice, Teuvo treats him with a kind of frosty reserve Sepe knows he’s earned, but on the ice—on the ice they  _ click. _ They know instinctively where the other will be, and they’re there almost every time. Teuvo drops gloves for Sepe when he takes a hard hit, and Sepe does the same for him, although he generally makes a fairly poor showing for himself. Still, Teuvo gives him a little smile and a fist-bump, and every time, Sepe feels like he’s floating the rest of the day. Even the ghost watching over Teuvo’s shoulder can’t bring him back to earth.

Even with that, there’s a reserve to their relationship, as if Teuvo’s holding himself back.  _ That’s fair, _ Sepe thinks privately. After all, it’s not like Sepe is particularly suited to close friendships. He’s too awkward, too attention-averse. It’s hard for him to make friends; harder for him to keep them. He stopped making an effort a long time ago. Maybe the ghosts that dog him taint his aura, somehow—no one tries to stay friends with him for long, as if something about him pushes people away.

He plays hockey, goes out for drinks when they win, participates in group activities, team skates, practices, and goes home to a cold, quiet apartment. Always, the old woman, the little boy, and the young girl are there. They never try to speak to him, and Sepe doesn’t acknowledge their existence. It’s become almost easy, or at least a thing of habit over the years, to ignore their presence, to pretend he’s truly alone. 

He used to read ghost stories, when he was younger, trying to figure out why they flock to him, why he can’t speak to them, why they’re  _ there. _ He gives up in disgust after a few years, tired of the sensationalism.  _ They never get the details right, _ he thinks, and stops trying.

He’s playing Call of Duty one night after a frustrating loss when there’s a knock at the door. Startled, he gets up to answer it, and is even more taken aback to find Teuvo on the other side with two pizza boxes and a sheepish expression. His ghost eyes him over Teuvo’s shoulder.

“What’s wrong?” Sepe says suspiciously in Finnish, and something oddly like  _ guilt _ flickers across Teuvo’s face.

“Nothing,” he says. “I just thought—” He holds up the boxes. “Are you hungry?”

Sepe’s in his early twenties and plays a physically grueling sport that pushes him to the limit every single day. He’s pretty much always hungry. He steps back wordlessly and lets Teuvo in.

Teuvo enters cautiously, inspecting the dingy apartment with trepidation.

“It’s not much,” Sepe says. He leads the way to the kitchen.

“You know you can afford better, right?” Teuvo sets the boxes on the pitted island counter as Sepe rummages in the refrigerator for beer.

“Yeah,” he says, coming up with one in each hand. “But—” He shrugs and holds a bottle out. “Why? It suits my needs.”

“Guests?” Teuvo asks, accepting the bottle. “Entertaining?”

“I don’t have friends,” Sepe says flatly. “Speaking of, why exactly are you here?”

Teuvo picks at the label. “It was a bad game,” he finally offers.

This is not information to Sepe, who simply nods silently.

“I thought… I don’t know. I guess I didn’t want to be alone. I can go—”

“No!” Sepe says, holding out a hand. “I just—you don’t like me.”

Pain flashes through Teuvo’s eyes. “That’s not true.” His voice is low. “I thought—I guess I thought you didn’t like  _ me. _ Because of—”

“How I ran away when we first met?” Sepe finishes, and Teuvo lifts a shoulder.

“And how you seem to avoid me, at least off the ice.”

Sepe sighs and rubs his face. This conversation is too heavy to be had after the day he’s been through. “Do you wanna eat pizza and play Call of Duty with me?”

Teuvo’s face lights up in response, and Sepe has to look away from the sight of his dimples flashing and cheekbones rounding, clearing his throat and turning to grab plates from the cupboard.

They settle on the couch and Sepe gets the game set up for two. Teuvo’s ghost hovers over his shoulder, and Sepe flicks a glance at her, then away. Then back, because her lips seem to be moving. He watches her for a minute as Teuvo chooses his fighter. She’s saying something, but it’s utterly soundless, as if the volume’s been turned all the way down.

Teuvo leans into his line of sight, quirking an eyebrow. “You good?”

“Yeah. Yep. Good.” Sepe grabs the controller and forces himself to focus on the game. 

It works, at least for a little while. They’re both freakishly competitive, just like all hockey players, and they swear and jostle and good-naturedly chirp each other for almost an hour.

Finally, Teuvo’s player walks straight into a landmine and he tosses the controller on the floor in disgust. Grabbing his beer, he makes an irritated noise at discovering it’s empty.

“Gimme your beer,” he demands.

“Get another from the kitchen,” Sepe counters.

“Too far to walk,” Teuvo says. “Hand it over.”

Sepe rolls his eyes but hands the half-empty beer over. Their fingers brush as Teuvo accepts it and—

_ I’m sorry I’m so sorry please Teuvo I didn’t mean to please you have to forgive me— _

Sepe recoils so fast he falls off the couch. Teuvo stares at him, lips parted in shock, but Sepe’s not looking at him. He’s looking at the ghost behind him, still repeating the words even though he can’t hear her anymore.

“What just happened?” Teuvo asks warily.

Sepe shakes himself and looks away from the ghost. There’s no way he actually heard her speak. He  _ can’t _ hear ghosts speak. Two aneurysms and a bloody nose taught him that much. And if he tries—he shudders at the thought. He’s older now, less resilient. Who knows if he’d even survive another attempt?

“Sebastian,” Teuvo says sharply. “What’s going on?” He’s holding out a hand to help him up, and Sepe grasps it without thinking.

It’s a scream this time. 

_ TEUVO YOU HAVE TO FORGIVE ME PLEASE OH PLEASE I’M SO SORRY PLEASE LET ME GO— _

The words slice through him like jagged blades, ripping holes in his brain. Sepe tears his hand free and scrambles backward on his hands and ass, fetching up hard against the entertainment center. He’s shaking, breathing hard, and he thinks he might vomit.

“What the fuck is going on?” Teuvo demands. He sounds more worried than angry, but there’s an edge of fear that makes his voice sharp. 

Sepe brings his hand to his mouth, bites down hard on the webbing between thumb and forefinger. The sting helps steady him and he makes a conscious effort to slow his breathing.

“Sorry,” he manages when he’s sure his voice won’t wobble. “I’m—yeah. Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Teuvo snaps. “Tell me why you’re being so fucking weird.”

Sepe pushes himself to his feet, steadying himself on the entertainment center. “If I tell you, you’ll think I’m crazy.”

“Try me,” Teuvo says. His voice is tight, no room for argument. Behind him, the ghost continues to babble silently. She’s wringing her hands, and tears shine silver on her cheeks, leaking from the black holes of her eyes.

Sepe balls his fists so tightly his fingernails press sharply into his palms, and takes a step forward. His eyes are fixed on the ghost, and Teuvo follows his gaze, looking up and behind him, then back again.

“What are you even looking at?”

Sepe takes an unsteady breath. “If I go down, you need to get me to the hospital as fast as you can.”

Teuvo rockets to his feet. “I need to  _ what?” _ He sounds about as unhinged as Sepe feels.

“I have to—” Sepe swallows. “I have to try something. Please don’t… don’t move, or talk, or… do anything. I just—I might have an aneurysm and I really don’t want to die so please Turbo, please promise me if I collapse, you’ll get me to the hospital as quickly as possible.”

Teuvo shakes his head helplessly. “I don’t understand.” His voice is small. “But okay, Sepe, okay—whatever you need.”

Sepe meets his eyes. There’s sincerity shining there amidst the confusion. Sepe nods jerkily and wipes his hands on his jeans. His palms are sweaty. 

He takes a step forward, then another, and holds his hand out. Teuvo can surely see the way it’s shaking, but he doesn’t remark on it. Instead he takes a deep breath of his own and grasps it.

The voice shreds through Sepe like he’s wet tissue paper and his knees buckle, taking him to the carpet.  _ TEUVO PLEASE WHY WON’T YOU LET ME GO PLEASE TEUVO I CAN’T BEAR THIS ANY LONGER I’M BEGGING YOU— _

“Stop screaming!” Sepe shouts, and the voice shuts off like a switch.

Teuvo has followed him to the carpet and is clutching his hand in both of his. There’s an anvil on Sepe’s chest, breath rattling in his ears.

“What is it?” Teuvo asks. “Sepe, can you hear me? Who’s screaming?”

Sepe rasps for air. “Shut…  _ up,” _ he gasps. Teuvo obeys but Sepe’s already looking up past him to the ghost.

“Oh,” he croaks, “oh your eyes, they’re—”

Her eyes are honey-brown, brimming with tears that are still rolling slowly down cheeks round with the remnants of baby fat.  _ Please, _ she whispers.  _ Please let me go. _

“I don’t know how,” Sepe chokes out, and the ghost brings both hands to her face and sobs quietly, as if she’s given up hope. “Wait, please—what’s your name?”

“Who are you  _ talking _ to?” Teuvo demands. His hands are warm and steady and Sepe squeezes them sharply. Somehow, Teuvo gets the hint and shuts up.

_ Lijla, _ the ghost whispers.  _ Lijla, I’m Lijla, please— _

“Lijla,” Sepe says out loud and Teuvo goes utterly still. Sepe chances a look at him. Teuvo is staring at him, eyes full of shock.

“What.”

“Lijla,” Sepe repeats, and the ghost nods, more tears rolling down her face. “Do you know—did you know a Lijla?”

“Is this a joke?” Teuvo demands. He tries to pull his hands away but Sepe holds tight.

“Please don’t,” he begs. “Please, Turbo, you have to trust me,  _ please.” _

Teuvo stops pulling and his shoulders sag, head drooping. “She was my girlfriend,” he whispers after a few minutes, and the words seem to be dragged from him. “She was—her father—we tried to—”

_ We were sixteen, _ Lijla says. She drifts closer to Teuvo, brown eyes softening as she gazes at his bowed head.  _ My father forbade us from seeing each other. I… loved him. Love him.  _ She looks up, into Sepe’s eyes, and he flinches in spite of himself.  _ But he needs to let me go. Please. Please tell him to let me go. _

“What happened?” Sepe asks Teuvo. “How did she—”

“Her father wouldn’t let her see me,” Teuvo murmurs. He looks up, like he might be able to see Lijla hovering over him, but his gaze goes right through her, unseeing. “She ran away. I don’t know what she thought she was going to do on her own at sixteen years old, but—” His voice cracks and Sepe grips his hand harder. “She was found… o-on the r-road. Hit and run. They’re pretty sure she died on impact.”

Sepe’s hands hurt but he’s not letting go. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

_ I was coming to him, _ Lijla says.  _ We were going to be together. But he has to let me go, he HAS TO LET ME GO PLEASE— _

Sepe flinches, ducking his head as her voice rises. “I don’t know how he’s supposed to let you go!” he blurts, and Lijla  _ screams, _ a wordless howl of agony that makes Sepe cry out and fall forward, into Teuvo’s arms.

Teuvo catches him without hesitation, bracing him as Sepe burrows into his chest in a desperate attempt to shut out the ravaging shrieks ripping through his eardrums. A trickle of warmth seeps from his ear and Teuvo makes a shocked noise, freeing a hand to touch Sepe’s earlobe. His fingers come away dripping red.

“Stop,” he says, looking around wildly at nothing.  _ “Stop, _ you’re hurting him!”

The screaming shuts off abruptly and Sepe sobs with relief. He allows himself another minute in Teuvo’s arms and then slowly pushes himself upright. Teuvo’s still holding his hand, seemingly as loath to break contact as Sepe is. He reaches out with his free hand and wipes a tear off Sepe’s cheek with his thumb.

“What do we do?” he whispers.

Sepe’s not about to admit again that he has no idea, not and risk the same outburst. He shrugs mutely instead. Lijla is petting Teuvo’s hair, again and again in a hypnotizing rhythm, her posture soft as she bends over him, and something hot and possessive unfurls in Sepe’s chest. He pulls his eyes away from the way Lijla is looking at Teuvo as though he’s  _ hers, _ even as Teuvo stares worriedly at Sepe, gripping his hand tight.

“Why—why do you need to go?” Sepe asks, before he can think better of it.

Lijla shifts her gaze to him and her eyes flicker.  _ We’re not meant to be here, in this place. We don’t belong here. It’s like… ashes and dust in our mouths, clogging our noses, blinding us. We’re bound, chained. He has to let me go, he  _ has _ to, please— _

Sepe clears his throat and tries to think. The slow drip of blood from his ear is distracting, as are Teuvo’s big brown eyes, but he forces himself to focus, dredging up all the lore and stories he’s ever heard about ghosts.

Most of it had been wildly conflicting, varying so much from teller to teller that there’s almost no common thread, but one thing that seems to ring true no matter the story is that ghosts seem tied to an object, like a lodestone, an anchor holding them in place.

Sepe drags in air. It feels like razor blades in his throat and he swallows painfully. “Do you—” He swallows again. “Do you have anything of Lijla’s?”

He doesn’t know what he’s expecting, not really. He’s definitely not expecting Teuvo to nod instantly. 

“Her rosary,” he says. “Or part of it, anyway. Her mother gave it to me.” He holds up his wrist with the smooth wooden beads that clack together gently.

Sepe looks at Lijla, who nods. 

“Can you take it off?” Sepe asks Teuvo.

It takes a minute, since neither of them is willing to let go of the other, but eventually they manage to untie the frayed ends of the cord. It falls to the floor by Sepe’s knee and Lijla makes a noise. 

_ Destroy it, _ she whispers, a faint susurration rasping against Sepe’s eardrums. Sepe picks it up, wondering if it will feel different, odd,  _ off _ somehow, but it just feels like cool wooden beads, silky smooth from wear and age.

Sepe doesn’t have a fireplace. He doesn’t even have a lighter. 

They end up using the burner on his stove. The flame licks up, bright blue and greedy, and Sepe holds the bracelet out to Teuvo. They’re still holding hands. Teuvo takes the bracelet, turns it, thumbs the beads across the faded rope. 

“Will it work?” he asks.

“I have no fucking idea,” Sepe says honestly. 

Teuvo tosses the bracelet onto the burner without another word. They watch, spellbound, as the beads lie in the fire, tiny rivulets of flame licking up their sides. Nothing happens for long, aching moments, long enough to make Sepe wonder if they’re even going to catch fire, when suddenly they combust in a tiny explosion, spitting and popping noises that make them both stumble backward.

Lijla screams in the same moment, making Sepe flinch, but there’s joy in it this time, joy and relief and freedom that makes tears spring to his eyes. And Teuvo—Teuvo spins in a half-circle, whipping around as if he heard her too. 

But it’s too late, she’s gone, winking abruptly out of existence like a snuffed candle. 

Sepe lets go of Teuvo’s hand and thuds to the floor in a heap. 

“Is she—”

Sepe nods, suddenly exhausted. He’s beginning to shiver—maybe adrenaline, maybe a reaction to whatever just happened. He doesn’t much care. He’s dimly aware of Teuvo turning away, of water running. Then he’s kneeling beside him, a hand on Sepe’s shoulder to steady as he dabs at the drying blood on Sepe’s ear and neck. 

“Sorry,” Sepe mumbles nonsensically. He crosses his arms but the shivering is getting worse. 

Teuvo doesn’t answer. He just pulls Sepe to his feet and turns him in the direction of the living room. They settle on the couch and Teuvo tugs him tight against his body, wrapping an arm around him. Sepe tucks himself gratefully in along his side, burrowing close and soaking up his warmth.

They sit like that for a few minutes, as Sepe’s breathing slows and the trembling begins to fade.

_ You can hear me, _ someone says, and Sepe sits bolt upright.

It’s the old woman. Her eyes are still black, but no longer lid-to-lid. She’s focused on Sepe with terrifying intensity.

Dread shivers through Sepe’s bones. He wants to pretend he hasn’t seen her, but even if it hadn’t been too late, he already knows he can’t do that.

Teuvo is eyeing him. “Please tell me my dead grandfather isn't standing in front of me,” he says in that dry, calm way of his, and Sepe almost laughs.

“Not yours,” he says. He rubs his face. “This one’s mine.” He tightens his grip on Teuvo’s hand and faces the woman. 

_ We never meant to hurt you, _ she says, and somehow that’s the last thing Sepe was expecting to hear. 

“Oh,” he manages. “That’s—oh.”

_ Please, _ she whispers, and it’s like cornhusks rubbing together, soft and dry and leached of life.  _ Let me go. _

Sepe looks at Teuvo, who’s watching him. His dark brown eyes are serious, his grip on Sepe’s hand unfaltering.

“I have to—” Sepe breaks off. Anyone in their right mind would have run screaming by now. Somehow, against all odds, Teuvo’s still there, everything about him a steadying, calming influence. Sepe wants to ask why. He wants to kiss him. He wants ghosts to not exist, so he can be  _ normal. _ Tears sting his eyes, and Teuvo squeezes his hand.

“Tell me what you need,” he says. 

“I have to help them,” Sepe says miserably. It’s too much. Teuvo will leave now, find a reason to get out, to never come near him again. He probably won’t even pass to him after this.

But Teuvo just nods. “So we’ll help them.”

Sepe stares at him. “But  _ why?” _

Teuvo’s smile is small but his dimple still flashes. “Do you really not know?” He raises his free hand and presses a finger to Sepe’s mouth. It’s warm and firm and Sepe can’t breathe for the sudden intimacy of it. “See if you can figure it out,” Teuvo suggests. “But first, we help them.”

Sepe nods, dazed. He’s right. They—whatever they are to each other—can wait. Sepe smiles at him and turns back to the old woman.

“What can I do?”

**Author's Note:**

> [Come talk to me on Tumblr, where I have emotions about goalies on days that end in Y](http://greymichaela.tumblr.com)


End file.
